To Write An Opera
by SunWillRise2340
Summary: Determined to continue on her father's legacy Marianne is searching for a composer who will make her libretto famous. Enter Erik, Phantom of the Opera. Reclusive, bad-tempered and condescending, can she prevail upon him to make her opera famous? Will this adaption of Hugo's Les Miserables ever grace the stage of the Opera Populaire?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Me again. Hello. This is new story, that I had an idea for, and I've been working on for months. It is finished, but you will get updates every Friday and every Monday, except for today and Chapter Two will be posted on Wednesday night since I am away on exchange for a week starting Thursday. I want to say a ginormous thank you to my beta, _FantomPhan33, _who was honestly incredible, helped me through some tough scenes and always made me laugh. Check out her stories (if you don't know them already).

Phantom does not belong to me. Nor does Les Miserables. Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg actually wrote the musical and it belongs to them.

Okay, then. On with the show.

* * *

**Chapter One**

* * *

**Paris, May 1870**

My father died when I was eleven years of age. His one legacy – a tattered, leather bound manuscript almost full of words, was scribbled in a careless hand upon the worn parchment. His words, our words. The ones we spent night by night poring over, heads bent by the light of the crackling fire. Does it fit, Mari? He would ask. Does it work?

He valued my word far too much. But now he's gone, and I am left with our manuscript. Our beautiful masterpiece that will never grace a stage. Neither of us knew music, save for his small ability to tap out a one-fingered tune upon a battered pianoforte, and my ability to sing that melody into the open air.

And even if we'd been able to play our tunes, we couldn't write them down, not on those beautiful stave-pages we always saw in the quality stores of fine music when we walked together on Sundays.

But it is all stored in my head. The melodies we created, the stories we wove, all from my mother's favourite book. My poor, sweet mother, who married below her station and got nothing but a life in a Parisian slum.

It is ironic, is it not, that I now reside in an Opera House? My mother works as a maid here, her careworn face still lighting up with joy when she sees me. And I am learning ballet, though I have been relegated to the end of the back-row due to my inability to do anything more complicated than a simple _rond de jambe_.

Nevertheless, most of the ballet girls tolerate my fumbling and awkwardness, and some even go out of their way to be nice to me. Meg Giry, the daughter of the ballet mistress always offers to run me through my steps, even though I always manage to fall over, or step on her toes, and Christine Daae, her best friend always invites me to their table at mealtimes.

But it the silent times that I crave, when everyone has gone on some outing or another, to immerse themselves in the latest fashions at the dress shops, or giggle over a steaming mug of coffee. I hide away in a deserted corner, usually one of the boxes, and look over the lyrics, struggling to decipher which were written by me and which by my father.

The title page of the book, made when I was seven years old, proudly proclaims 'Les Miserables, an opera based on the novel by _Monsieur _Victor Hugo.' Papa always claimed that Les Miserables was a beast and so difficult to understand, so many intertwining tales of love, loss and redemption, and grand tangents that only touch upon the main storyline.

An opera is easier to understand. It has to be. And so that's what we did.

My greatest dream is to be there on the opening night, to play the role of Éponine, my favourite character and to receive a standing ovation for the cast, sparkling reviews from the critics of every newspaper, Le Figaro, and L'Époque. In my mind, Christine sings the role of Cosette. Carlotta and Piangi, our awful leading couple who screech loud enough to bring down our beautiful crystal chandelier would be relegated to the role of the evil, scheming Thenardiers.

But it is not to be. An opera would never work without the music, and no self-respecting composer would take on an opera written by a dead man and a young girl.

My dreams will never come true.

...

"_Mon ange _visited me again last night," Christine confides as she slides into her seat across the table from us, her blue eyes shining.

These comments are considered perfectly normal by Meg and myself, as Christine's 'Angel' has been visiting her ever since she was a little girl, coaching her voice and teaching her to spread her wings and soar. That is how she puts it, anyway.

"What did he say?" Meg leans forward, ever interested in the strange and supernatural. I put another spoon of porridge into my mouth. Christine darts a look around to check if anyone is listening in, and lowers her voice.

"He says it is almost time," she pushes a chestnut lock out of her face.

"Time until what?" I ask, a little too loudly. They both make shushing gestures at me.

"Until my debut, when the whole of Paris will know my name," her cheeks flush. For all her excitement, Christine is a shy girl, very beautiful and very innocent.

I smile. "I'm happy for you. But one question, how on earth is your Angel going to get rid of Carlotta?"

"Oh, The Phantom will do that for him," Meg says airily, with the expert tone of a person who is well informed on the subject of the Opera Ghost. "Another prank will send her storming off in a tantrum, mark my words."

...

The dress-rehearsal of our Opera's new production, Hannibal. As ever, I am at the back of the dancers, in my skimpy corset, trying desperately not to fall over or injure anyone in any way. I can feel _Madame _Giry's dark gaze fixed upon me, and know I'm in for another late night 'instruction session' that always occurs before a show.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Hem hem, ladies and gentlemen!" our manager waves his arms about like a stranded insect, trying in vain to get our attention. "_Madame_ Giry," he calls.

She stamps her cane, and all of us stand to attention, feet in fifth position and arms held in _bras bas. _

"Thank you," is the reply. I drift off into a daydream of a different rehearsal, my rehearsal, as he launches into some grand drivel of how he is retiring and these are our two new managers. I stifle a sigh as he makes introductions to Carlotta and Piangi, and these two gentlemen who look as if they've never set foot in an Opera House before. Not that I can talk.

"_Monsieur _Reyer, isn't there a rather fine aria for Elissa in Act Three of 'Hannibal?' Perhaps if Signora would like to grace us with a private rendition…"

I exchange glances with Christine and Meg – the latter of which rolls her eyes and heaves a mock sigh. Here we go again.

"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye…remember me, every so often, promise me you'll try…On that day, that not so distant day, when you were far away and free…" I am tempted to cover my ears with my hands, but that would be childish.

There is an earsplitting crash, and scenery comes tumbling down from the catwalks. Heart pounding, I jump out of the way and land almost on-top of another ballet girl, who shoves me aside.

"He's here, The Phantom of the Opera!" Meg's face is white as she stares at the fallen scenery and the enraged diva who lies trapped beneath it.

Maybe Meg can see the future.

Because before we know it, she's volunteered Christine to take the diva's place.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: I know it's not Wednesday yet, but I figured if I gave you one update today and one tomorrow, that will be enough for the time I'm away...Thank you to the two who left lovely reviews for me...any more are extremely welcome. Once again, thank you to _FantomPhan33_ for beta-ing, and Phantom of the Opera and Les Miserables do not belong to me.

Just a short one today.

* * *

"You were incredible," we crowd around Christine, Meg and I at the forefront.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "Thank you, Meg, Marianne, thank you."

"You did well," _Madame _Giry's words are accompanied by the stamp of her cane. "He will be pleased."

The other ballet girls look confused at this sudden mention of a _he. _Christine is too innocent to have a lover, has never mentioned anything to any of them. Meg and I exchange knowing glances.

"And you were a disgrace!" _Madame _Giry rounds on us. "Such _rond des jambes_! Such _temps de cuisse_! Come. We rehearse, now!"

I sigh as I follow the twittering flock of ballet girls, our tulle skirts white in the dark corridors leading to The Ballet Room.

"And one and two and three," _Madame _Giry claps her hands, and we form up into our lines, practising the same movements over and over again. Half an hour in, my legs are already shaking and I'm finding it hard to keep my head upright.

"Keep going, girls," _Madame _suddenly says. "Sylvie, you lead."

Sylvie Belanger, the eldest and second dancer to Meg takes the centre of the room. This particular girl has no trouble in pointing out everyone's flaws, and as her pale eyes focus on me, a blush rises to stain my cheeks and tears threaten at the corners of my eyes.

"Marianne Lemieux, you are not turning out," she says triumphantly. My chest tightens. "_Relevé_ like this and then do two _pirouettes_ and a _rond de jambe_…your arms are like a scarecrow. Gently, bend them gently."

The other girls snicker behind their hands, watching as I clumsily attempt her instructions, wobbling awkwardly on the tips of my toes.

The door creaks open and Meg appears, her blonde hair falling out of her bun. "Sylvie," she says. "Stop torturing Anne. I am to take over now."

Meg sends the other back into lines, me to the back and we start over again, the flush never fading from my cheeks.

As soon as _Madame _Giry returns, a troubled look shadowing her eyes, she dismisses us, telling us all to go to bed. We all sink into _reverences _and bid her goodnight, heading out in chattering groups of two or three.

"I'm going to see _Maman,_" I say quietly to Meg as we pass a side-door to the servants' quarters. "I'll see you later."

"See you," Meg says absently, following the others towards our dormitories.

Ascending the stairs on shaking legs, I open the door to the servants' corridor, the flaking wooden doors a stark contrast from the grandeur of the main Opera House, or even the neat rooms in which we sleep.

My knock echoes around the silent hallway, and quickly, the door is swung open. "_Cherie,_" my mother stands in the doorway, a smile already pulling her lips wide. "How nice it is to see you! You looked lovely up on stage this evening – I was watching from the wings."

"_Maman,_" I say, enfolding myself in her warm embrace. She shuts the door behind us. "I did everything wrong. I can't have looked lovely."

"Is it Sylvie Belanger again?" she asks, knowing full well the cause of most of my problems.

"Yes," I nod, a lone tear trickling down my cheek. "I don't know why she always picks on me! There are twenty-five of us, _Maman, _and it's me she singles out."

"She's jealous," my mother says with the air of a proud parent. "She's jealous that she doesn't have your looks, or your smile."

"I'm not that pretty, _Maman,_ Not like Meg or Christine."

"But you have your talent. I've been keeping it safe for you," she reaches under her bed and pulls out my treasured book. The sight of it brings a smile to my face, sunshine peeking out from the rainclouds.

"Thank you," I say, taking it in reverent hands. "Did you get a chance to look at the last bit I added? Fantine needed better lyrics to her song."

"No, not yet," she smiles, her eyes crinkling up. "Sing it for me."

...

As Christine sleeps and he sits at his organ, sound trickles down through the catacombs, a sweet, lovely sound with the rough edge of someone unused to practising.

"I dreamed a dream in time gone by…when hope was high and life worth living. I dreamed that love would never die…I dreamed that God would be forgiving…"

He has heard every single piece of opera music ever written, and he cannot ever remember hearing something with such lyrics, lyrics that speak of love gained and lost, a life plummeted into despair.

In a way, it reminds him of himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**: Don't own any of it.

**A/N **Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favourite and followed. Now, I'm away in Italy for the next eight days, so I'm updating today and I will give you a double update on Saturday the 26th of October. Reviews make me smile, so just click that little button on the bottom of the page. I'd love to hear from you!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

* * *

Christine has disappeared. That is the talk of the Opera House. Because late last night, _Madame _Giry was confronted by a suitor, a childhood sweetheart of Christine's, who demanded to know where she was.

_Madame _had come to wake the two of us up, hoping that we might know where she had gone. We were led, shivering in our nightgowns and robes, to her office where the handsome young man who introduced himself as the Vicomte de Chagny, our patron, waited.

"All she would talk about was her Angel," Meg had said, a frown crinkling up her pretty face. "But he's an Angel, and celestial beings can't kidnap mortal girls."

_Madame _takes in a deep breath. "If she has not returned by morning, we will notify the police."

And that was the end of that.

Now, in the early morning sunshine, rumours are streaming through the opera house like fish through water, the information passed from one person to another, distorting with each hearing. If you asked one of the stage hands, he'd say that the Opera Ghost had taken her, if you asked one of the ballet girls, they'd say she'd run off with her mysterious lover.

But Meg and I knew we were right, that her Angel had her. This was confirmed when I overheard Raoul de Chagny arguing with the managers, claiming that they sent him a note telling him what Meg and I believed to be true.

It is mid-afternoon when she returned to her dressing room, white and shaking, like a ghost, appearing out of thin air. She ushers us inside, and locks the door, glancing furtively about.

"Where were you?" the words burst out of my mouth.

She looks so close to tears that I immediately regret my tone, muttering a soft apology as she sits heavily on the chair.

"My Angel," she says quietly, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief that Meg proffered. "My tutor…he's…he's the Phantom."

We stare at her dumbfounded. "The Phantom? He's the one who's been teaching you?"

"Yes," Christine says. "Yes, it is him, oh God, he was so angry at me for allowing Raoul into my room and…" she breaks off, stands, begins to pace. "He's a composer, and his voice, I mean, it fits an angel but for a mortal man to have such a voice…"

I stare at her. She's unwittingly given me the best gift of my life. A composer. This ghost, who isn't a ghost, who's a man…is a composer…and a composer who lives beneath the Opera House might just be willing to take on my masterpiece.

...

I sneak away from rehearsals the next day. In defiance to the Phantom's notes, those idiotic managers have cast Carlotta as the Countess in our next opera, _Il Muto, _and Christine as the silent role.

Really, when a vengeful ghost-man is threatening a disaster beyond imagination, they should go along with his wishes. But no, they have to have their Italian Prima Donna, and disregard true talent for fame.

They're making a huge mistake if you ask me.

Silently, cautiously, I open the door to Box Five, the Phantom's Box, clutching my manuscript tightly to my chest. "_Monsieur,_" I call. "_Monsieur, _are you there? My name's Marianne, I'm Christine's friend…" I feel like an absolute idiot talking to the empty air. What if Sylvie were to come along and find me, or worse _Madame _Giry.

"_Monsieur, _please. If you're there…"

"What are you doing in _my _box?" the voice seems to come from all around me, threateningly beautiful, and for a second, I think he really is a ghost, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

"I wanted to ask you something," I gather up my courage. It's too late to turn back now. "I have the lyrics to an opera. I have no musical talent and no composer would take it on."

"So you want me to do it? Ghosts do not have much free time on their hands, _Mademoiselle _Lemieux."

I jump, my heart skipping a beat. "How do you know my name?"

"I know all and see all," his voice is now coming from behind me, sending shivers of fear up my spine. "Shut the door."

With a slight breeze, the door shuts and locks itself. "You may as well get comfortable," he continues, as I stare, bewildered at the door. How did he do that? "Sit down," he commands.

Hurriedly, I sit on one of the lush velvet chairs, clutching the book to my chest and feeling like a child under the scrutiny of her tutor.

He sounds bored when he speaks again. "This opera, I presume the lyrics are finished?"

"Almost all," I say quietly. "If there are any songs that need adding…"

"Then I shall notify you. Leave the manuscript on the ledge under the balcony."

"But, _Monsieur,_" I start, forcing myself to say the words. "I would like to hear the music that you compose. I have the basic tunes for a few songs, and would not like them changed."

"_Mademoiselle, _the tunes are the composer's concern," there is an icy edge to his voice.

"It has been mine and my father's project for years, ever since I was a child," I bite out, something about him riling me up. "Forgive me for feeling that it is special."

"And if you do not let go of it, you will find that you have no composer at all. My patience is wearing thin, _Mademoiselle._"

I bite my lip so hard that it almost bleeds. "I've marked which ones have a tune already. And an opera is a joint effort."

There is silence, and for that silent second, I am in fear for my very life. "Very well," he is resigned – I could have cried from relief. "You will meet me here this time next week, and I will find somewhere to work on it together."

"Thank you, _Monsieur. _Thank you," I say. "Oh thank you."

"Cease that nonsense," he snaps. "Leave it where I told you. Off with you, Giry will be wondering where you are. And you might work harder at your dance."

...

I hear nothing from him for that week. It is spent relentlessly practising the ballet from Act Three, the one with so many complicated _batterie _and _soubresaut, _and beautiful hooped flower garlands that I'm sure to get tangled up in.

Nerves and preoccupation give me two left feet, and even _Madame _Giry is ready to give up on me by the end.

"Marianne, your mind is elsewhere," she stamps her cane right in front of me, stopping my speculation as to how _Monsieur _is getting on with my opera and causing me to wobble in my _attitude. _"Concentrate."

"Yes, _Madame,_" I say, fixing my gaze on my feet.

"Head up," she snaps. "Juliette Chanon, point your feet."

It's not only _Madame _who has been in an odd mood. Christine has taken to disappearing again, locking herself in her dressing-room and refusing to let anyone enter. Meg is hurt by this behaviour, and so spends more time with me, chattering away like a little blonde sparrow with a distant look in her blue eyes.

I barely escape her the day I am to meet the Phantom. I run on silent feet up the carpeted staircase to Box Five, trying the door. It swings open easily, and I dart a furtive glance around before slipping into the box.

A note waits for me, the red wax skull leering out of one of the seats. I shudder, before picking it up and opening it, seeing the swirling black handwriting on creamy black-edged parchment.

_Music practice room, number five. O.G._

I sigh. So now he has me running all over the Populaire. I scrunch up the note in my fist, and leave the box, taking as many back routes to the deserted practice rooms as I can. Everyone seems to be at dinner, or have gone home.

"_Monsieur_?" I call as I push open the door. It locks itself behind me, and I repress another shiver. I will never understand how he does such things. I advance into the room, towards the beautiful brown-wood piano against the back wall.

"You were looking for me," there is a creak, a swish, and I whip around, heart beating frantically and sweat pooling in my palms.

A man stands by the locked door, dressed entirely in black, dark eyes boring into mine from behind a white half-mask. A man, just as Christine said. It is the oddest sensation, but I find myself gravitating towards him before a sharp mental slap reins me in short.

"You frightened me," I wish I didn't sound so scared, breathless.

"Forgive me," he is mocking me as he strides past, seats himself at the piano. My manuscript is open on the stand. Straight down to business, it seems. "Some of the lyrics are good," he says.

"Er, thank you," I say, hovering awkwardly at his shoulder, unnerved by the backhanded compliment.

"I am willing to take it on," he doesn't look at me. "Do you have any thoughts before we begin?"

"I want it to be unique," I bite my lip, wondering if I'm being too bossy. "It starts with the chain gang, so something that's raw and harsh and shocking. It should send shivers up peoples' spines, as the lights go down and the overture begins to play."

He is silent for a second, then begins to play, fingers racing over the keys. It sounds incredible to my untrained ear, but after a second, he swears under his breath, stops, and begins to play again. It is like I am no longer there, it is just him and the music.

Finally, after many such stops and starts, the music merges into a tune with a steady beat, something loud and intricate, yet so simple at the same time.

"That's perfect," I say.

"Just the base – need to add orchestrations." he mutters, pulling something towards him and scribbling on it. "You may as well sit down."

I pull a chair over and sit beside him, remembering to keep a proper distance between us.

"The ones you have marked as having tunes," he flips through the book, showing a blatant disregard to how delicate it is. I bite my tongue. "I Dreamed a Dream, Castle on a Cloud and Who Am I? Sing."

I clear my throat, begin to sing, his hand writing down the notes by ear as they pour into the empty air. Before long, we have the three songs melody lines written on his stave-paper. Day has already turned to night.

He stands up. "I will see you next week."

I blink, and he is gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything.

**A/N: **Thank you again to my beta, _FantomPhan33._ Thank you for the four reviews. Enjoy the double update.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

* * *

The next time I see him, the Overture is complete, and when he plays it for me, I burst into tears.

"What is it, child?" he asks, irritated.

"It's beautiful," I sob. "I'd never imagined that I'd ever get to hear it, and for it to be so wonderful…"

He goes back to the piano.

Slowly, we develop an odd relationship – he is always annoyed by me, and I am terrified by his apparent ability to appear out of thin air and his violent mood swings. But we begin to trust each other, a fragile line drawn between us that neither of us cross. Sometimes, he even leaves notes tucked under my pillow in the ballet dormitory, detailing whether there is a room change, or asking me to make changes to lyrics.

"How is Jean Valjean doing today?" I sometimes ask as I sit down next to the piano.

"Singing his last aria," he replies absently, engrossed in the score in front of him.

Then things start to go missing. Sylvie's pointe shoes, various jewels belonging to Carlotta. Meg, Christine and I giggle as we listen to the diva having a tantrum at the top of her lungs, shrieking and cursing the Opera Ghost, the managers and her maids.

Somehow, they manage to placate her, though it would have been better if she had stormed out, refused to sing as she did for Hannibal. Looking back, I can't believe how foolish the two managers were for defying the Phantom. It cost more than anyone could have ever imagined.

...

"Marianne," my mother pulls me aside in the hallway, her mop dangling from her hand and more lines of tiredness etched across her face.

"_Maman_," I say, smiling at the sight of her. We ballerinas are kept so busy and what with my weekly meetings with the Phantom, I haven't had a chance to sneak up to the servants' quarters to visit her.

"You'll never believe what my friend Renée gave to me last night!" she is beaming, and continues before I can ask her, too excited to make me wait. "A ticket to _Il Muto_! She said that she didn't feel like going, and she thought I would like to see my daughter dance on stage."

"_Maman,_" I'm at a loss for words, a feeling of sickness growing in the pit of my stomach. I choke it down. I can't ruin her obvious excitement. "_Maman, _that's wonderful. Though I've told you I'm not very good."

"But I'm going to the _Opera_!" she laughs like a little girl. "I haven't been since I was a child. And I'm sure you'll be enchanting! Don't tell me anything! I want to find out on the night!"

I bury my face in her shoulder, feeling the cotton scrape against my cheeks. She wraps her arms tightly around me and I breathe in her scent. "I love you, _Maman, _and I'll dance only for you," I say.

"Oh _ma cherie_, my beautiful girl. I will be so proud. And now," she holds me at arm's length, "I have to work, or _Madame _Halley will cancel my evening off."

She kisses me on the cheek, and picks up her bucket, humming off-tune as she begins to clean the floor again.

...

Meg helps me with my steps, staying late in the practice room after hours to teach me. Christine sits against the wall, legs drawn up to her chest and eyes closed.

"Well done, Marianne," Meg claps as I finally complete the routine, an exhausted smile spread across my face. "That was the best yet."

"Thank you," I blush, sitting down in the middle of the floor to remove my pointe shoes.

"You're all going to be brilliant," Christine smiles, opening her blue eyes that have worry swirling in the depths. I don't comment, but Meg does, sitting down next to her. The Phantom's threats have been getting darker, more and more serious. A disaster beyond our imagination. And with him, no-one knows what that could mean.

"I'm sure he wouldn't do anything rash," she tells Christine comfortingly. A shiver runs up my spine, and seconds later a whispering voice echoes from around us.

"Or wouldn't I?" it says, accompanied by a soft chuckle.

Christine lets out a soft cry, and flees the room with Meg following her. Swallowing my fear, I look around the room.

"Please don't do anything too awful," I say to the empty air.

There is no reply.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything.

**A/N: **Thank you again to my beta, _FantomPhan33._ Thank you for the four reviews. Enjoy the double update.

* * *

**Chapter Five**

* * *

Nerves are rife backstage as we performers ready ourselves for the show, the ballerinas donning the pale green and pink tulle skirts and bodices and weaving flowers through our upswept hair.

Sylvie sweeps past, her light brown hair piled on the top of her head. "We don't need the Opera Ghost for everything to go wrong tonight," she says, her tone dripping sweetness. "We have our own little _bouffon _right here."

I lower my gaze in the mirror, flowers and ribbons dangling from my dark brown curls.

"Leave her alone," Christine's voice echoes from the doorway, and I turn to see her clad in her pageboy costume. I rise on wobbly legs, push through the throng of dancers to greet her. Seeing the anxiety clearly displayed on my face, she puts a comforting arm around my shoulders.

"It'll be alright," she says. "Meg told me that you're so much better than you were when they started."

"Thank you," I offer her a weak smile. "You'll be marvellous, though, even if they won't let you sing."

She smiles, and squeezes my hand. "Thank you for sticking by me through this," she says. "I know the other ballet girls think that my taste for fame has made me ambitious for more, but…thank you…"

"For not listening to them," I supply. "It's no problem, Christine. You're a lovely friend…just…be careful, alright?"

For the past few weeks, the Phantom has been in a foul mood at our meetings, has been composing nothing but angry music that is worthless for most of the plot. He didn't deign to share with me the cause of his anger, but I could guess it as well as the next person. Christine has been out with Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny several times now, and anyone who didn't know better would say that they are courting.

"I will," Christine assures me, jerking me back to the present. The music of the overture starts to play faintly from the stage and she smiles. "I'd better be going. Reyer will have my head if I'm late."

"Break a leg," I call.

"You too!" she replies.

...

I am in the wings when he interrupts the performance, standing next to _Madame _Giry as his voice echoes across the auditorium.

"Did I NOT instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?"

Meg's face turns as white as a sheet. "He's here…the Phantom of the Opera…"

Christine's eyes are wide with terror. "It's him…I know it, it's him…"

Carlotta grabs the front of her costume, red face within inches of my friend's pale one. "Your part is _silent, _little toad!"

_Madame _Giry puts a hand on my shoulder as anger starts to bubble up inside me, at Carlotta, at the _idiots _who sat in his box, even at the Phantom for disrupting the night when my mother is watching, ruining her first treat in years of hard work.

My stomach clenches as he says softly, "A toad, _Madame? _Perhaps it is you who are the toad."

After that, I remember it in flashes. Carlotta croaking. The ballet being ushered forwards, me stepping on Sylvie Belanger's foot in our hurry to pick up our garlands and get on stage. For the first time, me getting my steps right. Imagining my mother's face in the crowd, beaming with pride.

And then Joseph Buquet, plummeting from the flies with a noose around his neck. I scream, stumble backwards, away from his red face and twitching body.

It was him, The Phantom. He killed a man, a man who told stories of the Opera Ghost, claimed to have seen him. An unsavoury character but a man nonetheless. My composer is a murderer.

_Madame _Giry ushers us all off stage as the managers try to calm the audience. Christine rushes past with the Vicomte in tow, her brown hair flying behind her.

"Ssh, girls, ssh," _Madame _settles us backstage in one of the practice rooms. We are clinging to each other, sobbing with trails of make-up running down our faces.

Meg holds my hand so tightly I'm afraid she's going to break it, white as a ghost.

"What will happen, _Maman?" _she asks.

"They are going to re-start the performance," _Madame _Giry says smoothly, only her eyes betraying her distress.

"But how can they?" I burst out. "A man _died, Madame_!"

"It is our manager's decision," she curls her lip. "Tidy yourselves up, girls. There, there."

And fifteen minutes later, after a giddy Christine re-appears in her Countess costume, smiling from ear-to-ear, we go back on. Run the whole show again.

This time it is uneventful. Christine is beautiful in her role, innocent and sweet, and a dancer, Jeanne, who had been understudying Christine takes the part of Serafimo.

But as we file onto the stage to take our bows in front of a cheering audience, it happens. It starts with a creak, a groan, a clanking of chains. I see my mother in stalls, her smile stretching her face wide.

The clanking grows louder. There is a scream.

The chandelier starts to fall, down, down, down. Right in the place where my mother was standing. I stand there, my feet refusing to move as she runs, screams with her hands up to cover her face. I watch, horrified as she is pushed over in a wave of silk and satin, top hats and canes. And as the chandelier crashes into the stage and Meg drags me off by my skirt, all I can see is her lying in the aisle, eyes wide open in death.

...

"Marianne," _Madame _Giry kneels in front of me. I clutch at my dance teacher's hands, the tears streaking down my cheeks. I am numb inside. "Marianne, I'm sorry."

She's gone. My beautiful, kind, wonderful mother is gone. I'll never see her smile again, or laugh, or hear her delight when I describe our costumes to her. She'll never hold me close in the warm circle of her embrace, I'll never see her gold flecked brown eyes looking into mine, plait her hair for her, or bring her Les Miserables to read through.

She'll never see it performed.

"Marianne," _Madame _Giry says. "You're going into shock, come my dear. We need to get you out of here…"

"I need to see him," I murmur, wiping at my eyes. Then, more urgently. "I need to see him!"

I have to see him, to scream my agony out so that he might know what he did tonight, what he did to me and to my mother…my mother….oh my mother…

If the chandelier had never fallen, then she wouldn't have been crushed by the mob trying to escape it. If the chandelier hadn't fallen, I would still have her with me.

"That would not be wise," _Madame _Giry glances around, nervously.

"I need to," I growl, pulling myself free of her grasp. "Please, _Madame, _please."

She mutters something under her breath. And takes me through the corridors, up to her room. She opens the wardrobe.

"There is a door at the back. Turn left. It's the first right, third left all the way along."

"First right, third left," I murmur, willing myself to stop crying.

I open the door, and the darkness surrounds me. I cannot see.

But I must find him. I must.

The passages are dark, winding. But I keep putting one step in front of the other, the tears drying on my cheeks.

First right. Third left.

Finally, I come to a door. Push it open. Candlelight blinds my eyes after the perpetual night of the tunnels.

"What are you doing here?" the voice is a roar, echoing off the walls, no hints of the golden song that is ever present when he speaks.

"I…I…" I stutter, backing against the wall. Fear is twisting at my heart, and I am berating myself for coming here. I have never seen him like this.

But he has to know what he has done.

"Get out!" he shouts, throwing something that just misses me, shattering into pieces above my left shoulder. I'm shaking again, and there are tears pouring down my face. All I see is his dark shape, blurry through the sobs wracking my body.

Then his leather-clad hands are around my neck, and I'm choking. Panic bubbles up inside me and it's all I can do not to pass out, blackness teasing the edges of my vision.

"The chandelier…"I get out. "The panic. My mother…she's dead…"

The pressure instantly releases, and I crumple to the floor, wheezing breath in and out of my relieved lungs. "You killed her! If you hadn't dropped the chandelier, my mother would still be alive!"

"I am sorry," his voice is calm once more, quiet in the previous echoes of his rage, almost sad.

"No, you're not," I spit, the anger that has left him is rearing its head inside me. "You're not sorry at all. You never knew her. She was kind and wonderful and you killed her. I hate you."

"Is that why you came down here tonight? To lay your mother's death at my feet?" I hear him ask as a gloved hand passes me a handkerchief, and I wipe my tears from my face. He is now crouched before me and I stare into his dark eyes, then suddenly I've fallen forward and am sobbing again, sobbing into the material of his cloaked shoulder. His hands awkwardly pat my back.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I don't mean it. I know you weren't planning on killing her, it's just…"

"You needed someone to blame," he says. "I understand. I have often lashed out upon those who do not deserve it."

"Why?" I ask shakily. "Why did you bring it down? She performed, she sang, just like you wanted her to." I need answers so badly, but they are not there, ghosts in the shadows that will never see the light.

"You are not the only person who has lost a loved one tonight," he murmurs.

"Christine…and the Vicomte?" I sniffle as I remember seeing them disappear after Buquet was hanged, but don't move, the rise and fall of his breathing comforting me, calming me. "She can be so naïve sometimes."

Slowly, I sit back on my heels. He stays where he is, crouched in front of me, and I see such vulnerability in his eyes, such pain…he looks broken. _Stupid, selfish Christine, _I think.

"I am truly sorry, Marianne. I am to blame for her death," he says softly. "I am not fit to live after what I have done to you, caused you so much grief. Death would be a blessing."

I put my hands on his shoulders, force him to look at me, the anger bubbling like a witch's cauldron. "Don't ever say things like that," I glare at him through fresh tears. "It was not your fault, only my grief which made me blame you. I'm sorry. You're one of my only friends, now Mama's gone. And it may have been to do with you, but you were driven to it by a selfish child who only thought of herself. And you didn't kill Mama, the patrons did in their flight."

"Don't insult Christine!" he says, pleading. "Please, Marianne. Don't."

I stand upright, my legs still shaking. He remains on the ground, drops his masked face into his hands. His shoulders start to tremble, I have to fight to control my anger at Christine and her damned foolishness. How could she do this to a man who's only ever helped her, taught her to shine? I will never understand her. And I will never forgive the part she played in the death of my mother.

But for now, we both need to be alone, to grieve our losses – his angel to another man, my mother to heaven, to my father.

"Goodnight," I whisper.

He doesn't reply as I turn and walk away.

**...**

Meg is waiting for me in _Madame's _rooms as I enter through the wardrobe.

"Anne, I'm so sorry…" she starts, cerulean eyes filled with tears. "I…"

"I need to be alone, Meg," I say, holding myself tightly in control. If I don't, I'll break down.

"I understand," she says, worried. "I'll find _Maman. _You'll stay with us, won't you? Since…"

"Thank you," I say as she shuts the door behind her. I sink into the armchair beside _Madame _Giry's bed, draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around him. My loose brown and dark curls fall around my face as my body start to heave in gut-wrenching sobs.

_Maman. Maman, _why? I can see her eyes, the exact same as mine, her smile, her laugh. I see _Papa's _arms around her waist, his smile wide.

_I love you, _he says in my mind. _My girls. I love you both._


End file.
